Archer's Return

by Leona Grace

  “You think I don’t know that, Sam? You think I haven’t tried everything to stop them? I’ve begged and pleaded, gone down on my knees and asked Elias Dalton to let us stay here. I’ve even promised him the land when we’re dead, but he wants it now. And his men are getting bolder every time they ride up. I’m not afraid to die, but I am afraid to leave Martha alone and at the mercy of men such as that.” He wiped his eyes with the back of one hand and then turned to his wife. “I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry; I should have.”

  She nodded. “You should, but I already knew. Now we’ve a decision to make; do we leave and lose nothing more than a piece of land, or do we stay and lose everything?” Martha let go of her husband’s hand and looked at Archer. “What do you say, Sam? You’ve been here before and lost more than a home.”

  “What do you think, George? Will they come tonight?”

  “Oh, they’ll be here. Trust me. Shooting and hollering, scaring the horses and riding through the crops. Don’t know when exactly, but you’ll hear them when they come.”

  He leaned back in the chair. “Then we’ll have to be ready.”

  Martha insisted on him taking a rest for an hour or two while she made supper and George checked on the horses and he surrendered, knowing he was on the edge of exhaustion. The others were sound asleep, sprawled out head-and-tail on the old bed and he hadn’t the heart to wake them, so he pulled off his boots, wrapped himself in the blanket Martha had given him and lay down on the rag rug. The room was cool and dim and quiet. He could hear Martha puttering about on the other side of the wall, but the noise was oddly comforting. Duane’s face had lost its tightness and had reverted back to that of a young boy, innocent and trusting. He had been wrong to allow the lad to come.

  He closed his eyes and let out a long slow breath.

  Chapter 14

  Archer woke to find the sun lower in the sky than he expected. A deep sleep and, if he’d dreamed, he had no memory and he was rested and alert. Duane and Lancey were stirring, roused no doubt by the smell of hot apples wafting through from the other side of the wall, and he found his boots and opened the door to the main room.

  Martha was rolling pastry on the wooden table, her bare arms dusted with flour, smudges on her cheeks. “Feeling better? I didn’t want to wake you, thought you all needed some rest.”

  It was like being a child again, his mother sending him off to bed early after a hard day’s work, his little brother asleep on one side of the shared bed. He was fifteen before he had a bed of his own, and then it was strange not to have William curled alongside him. “Is there any coffee?”

  “Over on the stove.” She lifted a round of pastry and draped it over a plate covered with stewed apples. Deft hands cut away the excess and crimped the edge. A dusting of sugar and she put the plate aside and wiped the table clean.

  “Can you spare some supplies, enough for a few days?” He hated to ask, seeing how they had little enough, but they might need to make a run for it sooner rather than later. “And I’ll need all the horses – including yours and the plough horses – saddled and ready to leave as soon as the others are awake.”

  She stared at her husband. “Off you go. I’ll have a bag ready in a few minutes.”

  George left without a word, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Archer sitting at the table with a mug of coffee, strong and hot and black. The door opened, Duane and Lancey coming in, sheepish and yawning and he pushed his chair back, found two more mugs and poured coffee for each. “Duane? I want you and Lancey to take all the horses to where you waited earlier. It’s too dangerous to keep them here where anyone might see them. There’s enough cover above the tree line to keep them hidden until we’ve seen off Dalton’s men. Martha’s putting some supplies together in case we need them, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “And then?”

  “Depends on you. I’d rather you stayed there, out of harm’s way, but that’s not going to happen, is it?” He looked at the woman. “I can’t persuade you to do the same can I?”

  She shook her head, her hands busy wrapping bread and the rest of the ham in muslin cloths. “I’ll leave when George leaves. Not before.”

  There was no point in trying to argue and they were wasting precious time as it was. “Once the horses’re ready, get them up the hill as quick as you can but make sure no one’s watching you. If they are, then everything’s lost. If they suspect anyone’s here, then we’ve failed even before we begin. And check again, before you come back down.”

  “What about Dalton?” Lancey stared, daring him to say the words.

  “I haven’t thought about him yet. Let’s get through tonight first.” Martha handed them the bag of supplies and he took one last look. “All clear. Go.”

  They hurried out, Sam moving to stand at the edge of the window, armed with his rifle and watching the distant valley for any signs of riders: a smudge of dust, sunlight glinting off metal, birds disturbed by horses travelling at speed. They reached the stable and went inside, reappearing a few minutes later with all the animals, the two plough horses at the rear and moving slower than he liked. George closed the stable door behind them and hurried back to the cabin as the sheriff led the horses up the hill. Heavy feet kicking up clods of earth, Bran anxious and throwing his head about, Lancey’s horse showing his mettle and taking the lead.

  Long anxious minutes until they reached the shelter of the tree line and were hidden from sight. And they still had the return journey to make. He watched, concerned and alert, wondering if he should have insisted on Martha and the lad finding a safe place. Too late for regrets. He’d brought them into this mess, now all he could do was finish it once and for all.

  Away in the distance he caught a flash of movement and he froze. A glint of sunlight on metal perhaps, or someone aiming a rifle at the cabin. A glance back at the slope – no movement there, so Lancey or Duane were still unseen. A haze of dust, the outline of a single rider. Too late to warn the others to stay where they were. He could only hope they had seen and were taking cover. George was staring out of the window, fists clenched.

  “Any idea who that could be?”

  “Looks like Elias Dalton’s horse.” There was not mistaking the worry in the man’s voice. “It’s usually one of his men.”

  “Don’t tell him I’m here and whatever you do, don’t let him inside.” Archer put his rifle down on the table and found his knife. “Let me into the storeroom and then bolt the door behind me.”

  Jack Dalton was lying on a rough bed made from straw bales, hands still cuffed. There was no way out of the small room unless he had the strength to smash his way through the barred door between his prison and the cabin. “Seen sense, Archer? You don’t stand a chance against my father’s men. Why don’t you ride away while you’re still alive?”

  “Why don’t you shut up, Dalton?” He dragged the man to his feet and held him in front of his own body, knife against the prisoner’s throat. “Now be a good boy and don’t make a sound. You know what’ll happen if your father hears you?” The blade moved as Dalton swallowed. A rasp of steel against bristles before he eased the pressure slightly. “Don’t you?”

  A nod of the head.

  “We understand each other. Remember, not a sound.”

  He didn’t dare loosen his hold on the man – Elias Dalton was near the cabin now, the stamp of hooves on hard-packed earth, the jingle of metal from the bridle, the cabin door opening with a faint squeak. George’s voice, firm and proud.

  “Elias. What brings you here?”

  “Looking for my son.”

  Dalton squirmed beneath the blade and Archer put one hand over the man’s mouth, fingers digging deep into lips and cheek. A hissed warning. “Last chance.”

  Stillness. Only the harsh heat of breath against his hand and his own, slower breathing. The creak of leather and the thud of a boot, the restless movement of hooves. He saw it all in his mind: the man outside dismounting, standing there assured an
d confident, maybe one hand resting close to his gun. The horse was uneasy, maybe the bit deliberately fastened too tight. He thought of Meg who had been so badly treated when he first met her and his fingers gripped harder.

  “There’s no one here but Martha and me. You know that.” George. The voice firmer and more confident now.

  “I’d like to take a look.”

  “Why would I have your son here?”

  “Lancey was holding him in prison, only the jail’s now empty and there’s no sign of either of them. They haven’t headed for Vancross – I’ve had a man watching the trail and no one’s gone that way. The only people who might help Lancey are you two. I just want my boy, that’s all. Nothing else. If he’s here, hand him over to me and we’ll be on our way.”

  The supreme confidence of a man who held the upper hand. Archer pulled his gun from its holster. If Elias Dalton came into the storeroom, he might have to fight his way out.

  “I haven’t seen the sheriff or your boy; not since a couple of weeks ago in town. This is my land, my house. And you’re not welcome here.” The click of a rifle bolt. “If I see your son I’ll tell him you were looking for him. Now get on your horse and go.”

  “You’ve got until sunrise tomorrow, Carpenter. I want you and your wife out of here, understood? Whatever it takes.”

  “Are you threatening me? Because I don’t take kindly to threats.”

  “Threats?” The laugh was chilling. “I’m not threatening you, George; I’m trying to help. I’m giving you what you might call a friendly warning. There are men round here who’ll think nothing of burning your house down and killing the two of you. A word of advice; if you want to live, then leave while it’s daylight, while you’ve still got time.”

  A jingle of metal as the man remounted, the crack of leather against hide, hooves beating a drum rhythm down the path and Sam released his hold, wiping the palm of his hand clean on Jack Dalton’s grimy shirt sleeve. The bolt on the other side of the door slid open.

  “You heard him?” George still held the rifle in one hand. “I’m not going to give in, not for the likes of him, even if he promised safe passage.”

  “You think he’ll let you just ride away? Men like Elias Dalton don’t give mercy; he’s playing with you, watching you sweat before he closes his fist and crushes you to nothing. It’s too late to run; you know that.”

  “So I stand by and let them burn my home? You think I should surrender without a fight?” The man seemed to shrink, all hope gone, all courage and strength washing away.

  “It’s your decision; yours and Martha’s. I’ll tell you this though. I spent three years fighting for what I believed was right and I don’t give up. Elias Dalton thinks you’re too old to stand your ground against his men and maybe he’s right, but now you’ve got Lancey and me to help. One thing you need to think about however – I reckon tonight they’ll be riding with murder in mind, not just scare tactics. Are you ready to risk everything?”

  It was Martha who answered him, her voice calm and composed. “We are. Besides, even if we wanted to leave, it’s too late now.”

  He nodded. “Very well. We’ve got until sunset to make our plans. I don’t think they’ll come before dark. From what Elias said, I’m betting his men went into town first thing to spring Jack and found he was missing. And then they’ve ridden back. Makes for tired horses and tired men. If I reckon right, they’ll be coming here in the middle of the night when they’ve had a rest and they think you’ll be asleep.” He looked out of the window, watching. “That’s what I’d do.”

  Lancey and the boy were coming back from the trees. The thought of a youngster like Duane caught in the ensuing fight turned his stomach. Tonight would end in blood and death and maybe not only the deaths of those men coming here in search of violence. Lancey was as much at risk, as were George and Martha, but there was no place else to go; the Archer ranch was a charred ruin, the Farley place taken over by Elias, and any attempt to seek refuge in the town was as good as putting their necks in a noose.

  The only possibility was to outwit the gang, bring as many down as they could and hope Elias Dalton would see sense and give them free passage out in exchange for his son. A hateful thought, allowing a murderer to go free, but if it ensured the survival of his friends, he would do it. Lancey would be outraged but he’d deal with that later, if there was a later.

  An hour until sunset. And then they would have to keep watch for the gang’s arrival sometime during the dark hours. They would be coming with death in mind, trampling everything in their path, crops and fences and hopes. The door banged open to let Duane and Lancey in, alert and tense and he beckoned them over to the table and sat down with the Carpenters. “Horses?”

  “Picketed and settled, though your mare wasn’t for behaving until Duane put her by herself. She was fine when we left.” Lancey pulled off his hat and dropped it on the table. “It was Duane spotted the rider. Lad has better eyes than I have and stopped me heading back. We waited until he was well out of sight; didn’t want him creeping back and catching us.”

  “Good work, lad.” He saw the boy straighten up, shoulders a touch broader, face a touch sterner. A swell of pride at the compliment. “Now we get ready. We know they’ll be coming sometime tonight, maybe in the early hours, though I’m not betting on that. So you’ll have to stand watch through the night. Duane?” He faced the boy. “Once things start, you’re to stay with Martha and keep her safe. If things go wrong, it’ll be your job to get her out of here and away.”

  “But I want to help fight them.”

  Lancey shook his head. “He’s right and you know it; this is no work for a young man. You have your whole life ahead of you and killing a man isn’t anything to be done lightly. I should know.”

  Archer put his hand on the lad’s shoulder, hating himself. “Look boy, you promised to do as I said. If you can’t then you’re no good to me. You can sit it out with Jack Dalton if that’s the case.”

  The look Duane gave him was full of embarrassment and with more than a hint of anger. “I’ll do what you tell me, but I think you’re wrong.”

  Archer felt his own guilt. The boy did not deserve to be humiliated in front of strangers, but there was no easy way to make sure he remained safe. If anywhere was safe. Martha glanced at him and nodded and he turned to George. “The gang. Do they come the same way as Dalton? From the east?”

  “Always. They’re staying at the Farley ranch in the bunk house. They ride straight in as if they own the place, though they’re quiet enough until they get close enough to be seen. Why?”

  “We can use that against them. They probably won’t be expecting anyone to fight them so I’m hoping to take down a couple before they’re in range of the house. Maybe more. That’ll leave the rest to you and George if I don’t make it back.”

  He wasn’t going to tell them he’d be the one firing first. If he was lucky, the gang would run after the first few shots, but he wasn’t counting on it. These were mercenaries from all accounts, men earning a living with their guns. “Might be a good idea to move the wagon. George? Can you find somewhere safe to put it, away from the barn and the house?”

  “Out by the orchard’s the best place. I’ll do that after we’ve eaten. It’ll only take two of us.”

  It was all coming together. “Once it goes dark I’ll go and wait in the hayloft. Keep the back door barred and take turns to keep watch. No lights, no sound. When it begins, you and George do whatever you must to keep them away from the house until I get back. Duane? As I said, keep Martha safe. But I’ll need you to listen out for me and get ready to let me in the back door; don’t worry about anything else. They’ll likely come ready to set fire to the house, but if we can hold them off for a while, we can win.” He put one hand on Duane’s shoulder. “You’ve never killed a man. I sure don’t want you learning now.”

  Martha was putting food out the table: fresh cornbread and cold meats, pickles and preserves, hard boiled eggs and a slab o
f yellow cheese, the remains of a spiced plum cake. A hot apple pie last of all, the crust golden and glinting with sugar. “The last of the apples. Our first good crop as well.”

  “There’ll be more. Next year.” But there was little confidence in her husband’s answer and no one spoke.

  They ate in silence, passing preserves and butter and beef to each other, cracking eggshells and peeling them, sharing the cheese and pickles. Duane spooned a mouthful of hot pie and sighed, and Martha handed him the cream jug. Sam made sandwiches for later – thick slices of bread and beef and cheese to see him through the coming hours – and ate a small slice of the pie, aware of Duane hoping for seconds.

  Then they were done, plates empty, the remains put aside for the night and his sandwiches and a slab of cake wrapped to take with him. Martha insisted on giving Jack Dalton something to eat and he went through to the small storeroom with her. Dalton was surly but comfortable enough and they left him to his bread and cheese and a sliver of pie. The sun slipped deeper behind the horizon and it was time to go.

  Dark coat, hat, leather gloves. Food tucked in a spare canvas bag George found for him. Canteen filled with water. The Spencer was fully loaded and he picked it up, slinging it over his shoulder. Fingers grazed the Remington at his hip then he slipped out of the back door. He heard the wooden bar slide into place and he hurried away on silent feet to the darkening shadows of the trees and the barn beyond.

  The last sunbeams filtered through the spaces between the rough planks, dust motes hung in the hot and heavy air. Thick clouds rose in the distance, promising a storm in an hour or two. He hoped it would not be as fierce as the one a few days ago. A small creature scuttered under a pile of firewood as he stood there, breathing in the smell of sawn wood and linseed, turpentine and hay. A half-dozen fat hens, sheltering near the door, complained at being disturbed. A neat row of tools hung along one wall.